


The Wayward Sweep

by soldierspy (hinterland)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: AO3 1 Million, F/M, warfrost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hinterland/pseuds/soldierspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don’t love Loki. Two princes, and while you will split yourself upon sword-edge and spear for one, the other is granted the respect a prince is due, but this is always edged by wariness, by the careful vigilance granted to those who choose shadow to sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wayward Sweep

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless porno garbage.
> 
> Title from Megan Harlan's "Farsickness".

You love your lord Thor with the love reserved for those bound for greatness, for those whose stride consumes space in ways you don’t seek to match, but to complement. 

Loki moves in uneasy tandem with his brother, an off-step behind. He’s there when you don’t want him to be, a book tucked beneath his arm, his knife concealed (cleverly, always), his smile bright. Sometimes it even touches his eyes, like when he delivers an especially good joke that Thor then retells for weeks. 

You don’t love Loki. Two princes, and while you will split yourself upon sword-edge and spear for one, the other is granted the respect a prince is due, but this is always edged by wariness, by the careful vigilance granted to those who choose shadow to sun, who use words and smiles as though they were the weapons hung at their waist. All this is instinct. So too your desire to pare away the damn quicksilver that lights across his face when he compliments you, for this is mockery, surely.

You don’t love him. You think perhaps you even hate him when the wall hits your shoulder at just the wrong angle and his hand finds you wet. You hate him even more when he draws a sound from you: a name -- his name -- and when he leans in, it is just within your power to hiss out _not the mouth_.

_Oh?_ Laughing again.

* * *

You remember thinking his hands are cold when they finally venture across your thigh. _Fear, prince?_ you ask, and he stares up at you. His eyes do all the talking; he remains silent. This young son of Odin has been afraid all his life, but he’s made an art of disguising it beneath the silver flecks of laughter he throws into the air as he is similarly tossed by his sparring partners: Thor, you. The All-Father fills the grand hallways with his presence and there he is, worrying at his shadow; Thor laughs, and he joins in only when the joke as he understands it is not focused on him.

He left the training grounds that day with blood slashed across his cheek. _Fandral again?_ you ask. He shakes his head.

_Mother._

The skin is healed when you push him down and mount him. He’d invited you to match Frigga’s mark and when you failed (when did he become so quick?), he laughed, the sound a counter-note to Thor’s amused rumble. You push him down and mount him and Loki is no longer laughing, but gasping, gasping. His hands are cold and there is barely a smudge of colour to his cheeks as every lean line of him is thrown into a taut arc beneath you.

No, there is colour: blood, springing up in answer to the steel edged into his skin.

Colour. Red.

You win.


End file.
